


The Author of the Journals; Stanley Pines

by ShyEye



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Art, Author Stan AU, Backupsmore University (Gravity Falls), Brief Vomiting, Government Conspiracy, Hurt/Comfort, I'm ending each chapter with a journal page, Kinda, Multi, Never in my stories, No Incest, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stan writes the journals, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, not much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyEye/pseuds/ShyEye
Summary: After seemingly losing his twin brother at age 18, Stanley Pines makes the decision to pick up where Ford left off and see his dream of proving the existence of the supernatural realized. With his girlfriend beside him, a Backupsmore degree under his belt, and mountains of unprocessed grief still fresh in his mind, what could possibly stand in his way?
Relationships: Carla McCorkle/Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 34
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

When Ford returned from school late that evening in 1972, absolutely beaming, Stan wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or cheer. As his brother began animatedly explaining how impressed the West Coast Tech people had been with his project, he did neither. Just listened quietly with stones in his stomach as he tried not to let his smile slip. Of course that stuffy university was impressed, this was _Ford_ they were talking about. They would have had to be idiots to not be impressed. And of course Stan was proud.

That didn’t mean he didn’t _also_ feel like the floor had fallen out from under him.

Ford’s excited voice was barely audible to Stan’s ears. The inside of his head felt fuzzy and unpleasantly warm, it felt how he imagined his car would have felt that summer it overheated and damn near caught on fire. His ears were buzzing and it took all his effort to make Ford’s voice out behind the static. His attention briefly spiked when Ford mentioned his machine had stopped, Stan’s already laden stomach sinking further with guilt. But Ford barely paused. Why the machine had stopped didn’t matter to him. It hadn’t mattered in the end. Stan figured he should probably feel relieved Ford hadn’t dwelled on the specifics, but the relief wasn’t able to break through the heavy fog in his head.

Ford had gotten into his University after all.

Ford was going away.

Stan was being left behind.

First Shermie had left, and now Ford would as well. He swallowed audibly, propping his carefully crafted smile back up from where it had started to slip. Ford didn’t even notice. That was fine. That was for the better. Stan wasn’t about to bring Ford down. He deserved to bask in the accomplishment, he deserved to be proud. Ford was over the moon, and Stan hated the fact that he was stuck down on Earth. Lower, even. He felt as if he would sink through the tacky old shag carpet of the living room any second, and nobody would notice. He wanted to share in the pure jubilation his twin was feeling. Wanted to be there right beside him, playfully punching his shoulder and telling him how proud he was. But he couldn’t even rise from the couch. Just putting on a brave face was enough of a monumental task.

So instead, he picked the paddle ball racket back up and resumed playing with it to disguise the tremor running through his hands. Focusing on the ball hitting the wood until the steady rhythmic thumps filled his head and blocked out everything else. He wanted to scream. Wanted to punch something. Wanted to punch and kick and scream until his knuckles bled and his voice grew hoarse. He settled for pretending the ball was his fist and the paddle a wall.

It wasn't until he heard Pa’s gruff voice mutter praise that Stan even became aware their parents had joined them. If possible, Ford’s expression grew even brighter. But that was good. Ma and Pa were there with Ford, and they were _proud_ of him.

Nobody even noticed Stan slinking away back to the safety of his and Ford’s room. 

In a few months, he supposed it would just be ‘his room’. 

Collapsing onto his bunk, he finally let the tears come.

He was going to have to get used to falling asleep without the soft glow of a flashlight and the rustling of textbook pages from the bunk above. He was going to have to wean himself out of the habit of shaking his twin awake every winter to tell him the first snow had fallen. He was going to have to stop expecting the - not understanding but still supportive - shoulder to cry on whenever a girl turned him down.

He was going to have to get used to functioning without Ford.

Curling up in a defensive ball as close to the wall as possible, he hoped that Ford would assume he’d fallen asleep already if he went up. But the still loud chatter from downstairs told him it’d be hours before anyone bothered to check on him. That suited him just fine. He didn’t want to drag down the mood. He didn’t want to take this away from Ford.

He just wanted everything to go back to the way it was.

  
  


If you knew one summer was all you had left with your best friend, how would you spend it?

For Stan, the answer turned out to be ‘not that different from usual’. Doing anything special would just bring attention to the fact that this was their last summer break together. Although, it didn’t even _feel_ like summer break when there would be no going back to school afterwards.

Despite everything, Stan managed to pass his classes after many sleepless nights spent in the dark kitchen with Ford going over material he’d missed and concepts he didn’t understand. He’d silently berated himself for it. He wouldn’t be able to depend on Ford like that in the future after all, and the sooner he got used to it the better. But he made it in the end, and it was just as much Ford’s accomplishment as it was his own.

They’d graduated together. Ma had cried and planted embarrassing, noisy kisses on both their cheeks, Shermie ruffled their hairs and teased about how his baby brothers were all grown up, and at the end of it all they’d thrown their caps and each wound up catching the other’s. Stan had pressed Ford’s down over his own messy locks and proudly proclaimed himself the ‘biggest nerd in their graduating class’. Ford had laughed and copied him. In the end, they had decided to each keep the other’s cap.

After graduation, the first order of business had been finishing the Stan ‘o War and spending a month off the coast of New Jersey. It wasn’t the treasure hunting adventure Stan had dreamed of, but he appreciated the effort. At least it nailed the ‘beaches and babes’ criteria, and that far off the coast Pa couldn’t get on their case even if Stan might have smuggled a few bottles of beer on board. In plenty of other countries you got to drink at 18, it wasn’t his fault America was behind the times.

And what an 18th birthday it had been.

Objectively speaking, their summer was good. Fantastic, even. Among the best. They’d road tripped to New York in the Stanmobile, they’d watched a three hour gangster movie in the cinema, they’d spent hours on hours at the pier like they were kids all over again. He could almost allow himself to forget the fact that every day they spent together was one day closer to them being separated.

Stan had no idea what he was supposed to do with himself once it ended. He tried to live like it never would. But hidden just beneath the veneer of summer bliss was a gaping pit of uncertainty. He couldn’t just sit around freeloading at home. Despite what others might think, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be a leech. Even if he did, Pa would never accept that. So what would he do? Go to University himself? Not a chance. He wasn’t an academic like Ford, or a go-getter like Sherman. The paths open were few, and grim. 

He supposed he could try to find some dead end job like the principal had said he’d end up with anyway. Move into a crappy apartment somewhere all alone, and never make it out of their godforsaken town. Only see Ford a few times a year at holidays or whatever. Never do anything important with himself. Or, well, there was a war going on. Worst case scenario, he’d be drafted without the excuse of having anything better to contribute to society. At least if he was shipped overseas he’d get out of Glass Shard.

It was still bullshit he got to die a war but not buy a six pack.

  
  


Despite his best attempts, summer couldn’t last forever.

August 1 was the day Ford had chosen to leave. School wouldn’t start for quite a while longer, but with a university that took itself as seriously as West Coast Tech did he had been advised to be there early. Not to speak of how he’d be moving to an entirely different city on the other side of the country. He needed the time to get used to his surroundings, they’d argued. Stan hadn’t bothered to look up where exactly the place was built, all he knew was that it was somewhere in California, close to the shore. He knew that, because early on in the summer he and Ford had tried to convince their parents that it was a good idea for them to spend the summer sailing the distance in the Stan ‘o War, but that was where Ma had put her foot down. Stan supposed catching a plane was more feasible, in the end.

Ford had considered staying for as long as possible. Maybe he _did_ catch on to Stan’s separation anxiety. Just a little. But apparently there had been some scientific conference in New Jersey at the end of July that West Coast alumni had been featured at, and so Ford had been offered to take the same return trip as them.

Ma and Pa had gone to see Ford off, and Sherman was waiting to welcome him once he’d landed in California. Everyone would be there in some capacity or another.

Except Stan.

That morning, no matter how hard he tried, Stan couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. He felt terrible for it, but in the end he just couldn’t. He knew that if he had to sit at the airport and watch Ford leave, watch Ford walk away from him and leave him all alone with Ma and Pa, it would break him. Stan would break, and he couldn’t do that. Not when people were watching. If it was one thing Pa had made very clear to all three of his sons it was that men didn’t break, and men didn’t cry. He’d been willing to look the other way and let Ma fuss when Stan and Ford were little, but Stan was 18 now.

It was much better for the breakdown to happen in the safety of his ~~and Ford’s~~ room. Out of sight and earshot.

So he halfheartedly reciprocated the hug Ford gave him without even getting out of bed, and spent the rest of the day staring at the now empty bunk above him in a room that felt far, _far_ too empty without all of Ford’s stuff. The barren room only amplifying the emptiness inside Stan's chest. Ford was his other half, they had never been apart for more than a few days at most. Stan practically didn’t even have his own _name_.

He couldn’t watch Ford go.

He could _let_ Ford go. He had. But he couldn’t _watch_.

Stan couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

_How he wished he’d said goodbye._

When Ma and Pa returned home around lunch, they didn’t bother Stan. They didn’t check up on him. Didn’t ask if he’d gotten up to eat (he hadn’t). Didn’t do anything more than yell from downstairs to let him know they were home. 

It wasn’t until late that evening that Stan saw another human face again. When Ma worriedly cracked open his door and let him know Shermie had called, and told them Ford’s flight hadn’t shown up. Stan remembered standing in the living room in front of the TV blaring newsfeeds, but couldn’t remember having gotten up or walked there. Stan couldn’t remember what he and Shermie said to each other over the phone. Couldn’t remember the taste of the cheap takeout they’d eaten as Ma was too anxious to cook. Couldn't remember the uncharacteristically small posture Pa had slumped into. Couldn’t remember the hours of monotone programming they’d suffered through while waiting for some form of relevant news. And when the news had finally reached them, he couldn’t even remember the exact words.

He remembered Ma’s wail. He remembered screaming and throwing a glass against the floor, his feet bleeding as he stormed off through it. He remembered his socks becoming wet and muddy as he ran to his car without even bothering to put on shoes. He remembered Pa yelling at him to get back inside.

He remembered the announcement of a plane crash.

He remembered the realization that he no longer had a twin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's not aaalways going to be this depressing. I'm still setting up background stuff ;)
> 
> This idea has been floating around my head for a pretty long time now. We've all heard of the Reverse Portal AU (which is a concept I love btw) but I wanted to try and figure out a scenario where Stan and Ford's roles end up reversed even earlier. Stan becomes a paranormal researcher, writes the journals, goes to Uni and moves to Gravity Falls. And Ford... Well, you'll see.
> 
> (PS for those following my other works. This is in no way meant to replace those series, I'm working on a new part of 'It Takes A Village' right now as a matter of fact, but am feeling kinda writers blocked and needed something else to work on as well to try and get over it.)


	2. Chapter 2

Storefront signs blurred past the windows of the stanmobile as it barreled down the familiar New Jersey streets. Some still lit up, beckoning whatever people were out that late. They were too bright. They reminded him of the neon lights of New York just a month before. Only this time, his car was empty except for himself. There was no scrawny brown-haired boy in the seat beside him, grumbling over a map neither of them could decode. 

Ford wasn’t there. Ford _wasn’t_ there. Why wasn’t he there?

He couldn’t be gone. Stan had just seen him that morning. Just that morning, everything had been fine. Okay, maybe not fine, but at the very least Ford was alive. He’d been there, hugging Stan goodbye before going off to the airport with Ma and Pa. Stan could handle Ford moving away. He wasn’t sure _how_ exactly he would handle it, but he could. He could handle Ford leaving. But this? He would have taken Ford moving to the other side of the planet over this.

The halfhearted hug early that morning couldn’t be the last time he saw his twin. It couldn’t be.

_No, no, no. God, please no. Let it be a mistake. It has to be. Ford can’t be gone._

Stan never got to say goodbye.

That realization hit like a knockout blow during boxing practice, the car swerving dangerously as he slammed his head against the steering wheel. Shutting his eyes painfully.

He hadn’t even said goodbye. 

Ma and Pa had gone with Ford. They’d seen him off. They’d been there with him the last time he ever stood on solid ground. They’d gotten to say goodbye. Stan had gotten the chance to be there too. Stan had been given the chance to say goodbye. Have some token closure, at the very least. He’d been given a chance, and he’d rejected it. Why? Because he was scared of watching Ford go?

_How scared would Ford have been when the plane lost power?_

Stan was an idiot. A selfish, pathetic, coward. 

Another car barreled past, barely missing his. He didn’t even flinch.

Stan couldn’t breathe. He was acutely aware air was moving into and out of his mouth at an unsustainable pace, but nothing seemed to reach his lungs. He heaved painfully, slamming the brakes and practically throwing himself out onto the sidewalk. His legs folded against the rough pavement, leaving bloody scrapes on both his palms and knees. The pain barely registered at first. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and the burning in his lungs by far overtook any sensation in the rest of his body.

Was this what dying felt like? He couldn’t breathe. Had Ford felt like this, or had it been too quick for him to feel anything at all? Would he also have scrapes and bruises on his body? Would Stan even be able to tell which body was his?

He tried to force another gulp of breath into his lungs, but it was as if his very being revolted at the idea of breathing. Of being alive in a world without Ford in it. Instead, the air trying to make its way down his throat was intercepted by bile rising the other way. The two clashing and causing his throat to seize painfully as he emptied what little was in his stomach into the gutter.

It hurt. Breathing hurt. His throat hurt as it continued spasming with nothing left to expel.

The taste of acid in his mouth brought his unwilling mind back in time. Back to the start of summer, when an unfortunate mix of seasickness and cheap beer led to Stan spending an entire afternoon heaving over the side of the Stan ‘o War. Only then, he hadn’t been alone in his misery. Ford had been there. Comfortingly rubbing circles into his back and murmuring kind nothings.

Leaning heavily against the side of his car, he buried his face in his hands. Shielding himself from the eyes of the passersby. They made sure to give him a wide berth as they rushed past. What was another washed up failure sitting in the streets? Besides, what did it really matter at this point if people saw him break down? If he hadn’t been too damn proud to cry in public earlier, maybe he would have at the very least gotten to give Ford a decent sendoff.

The saltwater streaks running down his cheeks stung the raw scrapes.

It reminded him of learning to bike with Ford. Of falling over, and leaving them both with cuts and skinned knees.

Everything hurt. Inside and out.

What had once been happy memories suddenly felt tainted.

There was so much they had left to do together. So many things _Ford_ had left to do.

He felt like a child, wining pathetically about how ‘life wasn’t fair’. He already knew that. He’d known for as long as he could remember. But it was _him_ life was supposed to be unfair to. Not Ford. Ford deserved better than that.

It should have been Stan.

What good was protecting his brother from petty bullies when Stan had turned his back on Ford the one time he’d really needed him?

  
  


Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was some kind of emotional masochism that eventually had Stan’s still bleeding feet guide him to the beach.

_Heh, glass shards in his feet, at Glass Shard Beach._

Somehow, it didn’t strike him as very funny at all. Not particularly upsetting either. Just… Nothing. He felt nothing. Like too many horrific emotions all at once had blown a fuse in his brain, and now he suddenly couldn’t feel anything at all. He knew that, practically, he probably shouldn’t have walked several city blocks in just his socks. Especially not with already cut up feet. He also knew that ditching his car where he’d half-parked half-abandoned it after panickedly stopping for breath was a bad investment. In general, he also understood that being at the pier, unarmed, close to midnight, at barely age 18 was not a good idea.

He couldn’t bring himself to care about any of those things.

Moving on autopilot, he walked to the edge of the water and practically collapsed into sitting.

The Stan ‘o War was calmly bobbing up and down on the slow waves. It’s movement, and the sound of waves sloshing, almost hypnotic as he stared out through a dull haze.

If Ma had let him and Ford sail to California, none of this would have happened.

Or they would have capsized the boat and both drowned. Maybe that was a more likely outcome from sticking two teens on a homemade boat and sending it out onto the ocean for three months. But at least then Ford wouldn’t have had to go alone. At least then, Stan wouldn’t have been left behind. Just one half of a dynamic duo. Useless and obsolete without his other half.

“Stan!”

Before he even had the chance to properly turn around, another body had barreled into him. Nearly knocking him over and forcing him to catch himself with his hands in the shallow water. The salt bit at his wounds. It was grounding, in a way.

“Stan! I was so worried about you!”

“Carla?” His voice sounded hoarse. The emotions that had become dulled down began to feel sharper again in the presence of another person. Their edges digging into his heart.

“What happened to you!?” She demanded. “Why are you out here all on your own? Why-”

“Why are _you_ out here? Ya shouldn’t be wandering around this late.”

“Can it.” She snapped, obvious worry interlaced with the annoyance in her voice. For good measure, she lightly punched his gut. Normally, it wouldn’t even phase him. Now, he was just glad he didn’t have anything left in his stomach. “If I shouldn’t then neither should you. What’s going on? Did you get robbed? Where are your shoes? I swear if Crampelter and those guys-”

“Crampelter didn’t do nothin’. I’m fine.” Stan waved her off, trying to swallow down the burning in his chest. “Look, it’s late, do ya need me to walk you home?” 

“Stanley Pines, don’t lie to me! You know it never does you any good.” Carla exploded. “Your mom called me, practically in hysterics, and asked if you were at my place.”

_Oh, right. Ma._

If possible, Stan’s stomach sank even further. He had upset Ma even more. She didn’t deserve any more grief right now, that wasn’t fair on her. Stan shouldn’t be causing her even more pain. He shouldn’t be forcing Carla to go out looking for him in the middle of the night either. He didn’t deserve them. They didn’t deserve to have to put up with him.

“... Stan. Babe?”

Stan coughed around the lump in his throat. “I’ll be fine.”

Carla just looked at him, worried eyes seemingly boring into his soul. “... Did… Did something happen to Ford? Your mom…”

Stan flinched as if he’d been struck, biting his tongue to suppress a very unmanly whimper. “... He left for the West Coast today.”

“He did? Oh, I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of the days, I-”

“He never made it there.”

Pause. Stan could practically see the gears turning behind that silky dark brown hair. Horror dawning on her face.

“What?”

“S-... Shermie called. Ford’s plane never showed up a-and…” He scrubbed furiously at his eyes, hoping to eradicate any trace of tears before she could see it. “There was an accident.” He finished plainly.

“He… He’ll be okay though, won’t he?”

More silence. Stan wasn’t quite sure how long it stretched out for, before me managed to convince his locked tight jaw to move. Forcing the painful acknowledgement past his teeth.

“... He’s gone.”

Something inside Stan that he’d barely managed to glue back together after his first breakdown by the Stanmobile fell to pieces all over again upon hearing the admittance come from his own mouth. The shards scattering irrecoverably in the sand.

“All this time… I’ve had his back since before we were even born, and the first time I ever leave-... The first time in all our lives I can’t be there to protect him, and h-he-... He…!”

Before he could finish painfully stuttering his way through the sentence, Carla was on him again. Her hand’s tightly wrapped around his chest, and face buried in his dirty t-shirt.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry…” Stan felt the fabric her face was buried in grow wet. Whether she was also grieving for the boy she’d hardly ever spoken too, or simply hurting because Stan was hurting, he couldn’t say for sure. But hearing her cry as well killed the last of his inhibitions. To hell with ‘being a man’. He gripped two fistfulls of her jacket and sobbed into her shoulder.

“I can’t do this. I could barely cope knowing he’d be on the other side of the country, and now he’s _dead_! How the fuck am I supposed to do this all alone!?”

“You’re _not_ alone.” She clung tighter. “I know it feels like you are, but you’re not.”

“Maybe I should go enlist or something after all. At least that way if I die nobody can hold it against me.”

“No!” She pushed away from the hug, teary eyes impossibly wide as she looked at him in horror. “No! What would that accomplish? What about all those things you wanted to do with your life?”

“That stuff doesn’t matter! Not without him.”

“Would you have wanted Ford to give up on _his_ dreams if you’d died?”

“Ford’s dreams? Those will never get to be fulfilled! All of this happened because of his stupid…!” Ford’s stupid university. If accidentally breaking Ford’s project would have just made the judges change their minds… If Stan had just… If Ford had never gotten into West Coast Tech, he would have still been okay. Furious with Stan and distraught over the opportunity lost. But _breathing_.

“... He was so excited.” Stan continued. “He was _so_ excited to be a scientist. Prove the existence of all this supernatural junk. Prove everyone wrong. He’ll never get to do that...”

Apparently Carla didn’t know what to answer to that. Instead, she just hugged him again. But this time Stan didn’t move to reciprocate. Didn’t move at all. As if frozen by a sudden epiphany.

“My… My plans are in the dust. And he’ll never get to fulfill his.”

“You can make new plans.”

“... No. I-I… I don’t _want_ any new plans. But-... But maybe…” He sounded hesitant, but just a little less lost. Carla looked at him, and he blinked slowly. Gaze falling to his hands. “... Ford’s gone. But his dreams don’t have to die with him. I can’t protect him anymore, but I can protect his dream.”

“Stan…? What are you talking about?”

He took a shuddering breath, wiping his face with a look of new resolve thinly layered on top of the grief.

“Do you know if any Universities still have late applications open?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm starting to get the hang of how to draw journal pages! Way happier with this one than the last.  
> Thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos, I'm really happy with how positive the reception of this possibly weird fic has been! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Stan stood outside the front entrance to Pines Pawns, the lights shining down from the upstairs windows no longer offering the inviting sense of home they once had. His fist was raised, hand trembling in apprehension, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to knock yet. He quietly assured himself he was only steeling his nerves before having to explain himself to Ma and Pa.

Lightly, he could feel Carla’s hand brush his arm. Her face soft and sympathetic in the mild glow of the flickering streetlight. Taking in her face as if trying to gather strength from it, he moved forward again.

His calloused knuckles had barely even grazed the old wood before the door was thrown open.

“Stan Pines!” Pa roared, grabbing the front of Stan’s shirt before he could shrink back out of reach. “What the _hell_ did you think you were doing you knucklehead!?”

“Fillbrick!”

Pa tensed up almost immediately at the sharp admonishment. For a second, even the air between them was completely still. Stan’s blown-wide eyes looking at his father’s face, far too close for comfort. The world around him felt as if it had ceased to exist. The only thing left was a firm hand holding him stuck by his shirtfront and a pair of dark glasses. Dark glasses that he could almost catch a hint of the large man’s strangely jittery gaze through.

The hand released, and Stan instinctively took a quick step back. Pa heaved a deep breath, looked back at the couple as if wanting to say something, before disappearing back into the house.

Stan flinched as he heard his parent’s bedroom door slam shut.

His vision was dark around the edges, his breathing coming out in shallow gulps again even as he fiercely tried to tell himself he was fine. The situation hadn’t escalated. He was fine. Being shouted at was nothing new, even if it left him jumpy and seeing tunnel vision. He was _fine_.

Thin fingers touching his chin snapped his attention back to the woman now standing in front of him. Ma’s hand was impossibly soft, as if she was scared of breaking him.

“Hun?” Her voice was raw and scratchy. A far cry from the usual lazy drawl. Stan felt as if he’d collapse, melting into her touch. “He… He didn’t mean ta yell. He was just… Ya scared ‘im, see?”

He wasn’t sure whether the huff he answered her with was supposed to be a laugh, or something else entirely. She enveloped him in a hug anyways, as best as his not insubstantial gut allowed.

“Ya need to take better care of yourself, baby.” She released him again, surveying the damage. Flinching especially at his bloody feet. “Let’s get back inside, and patch you up. You too sweetie, I can’t thank ya enough.” She accentuated her point with a brief not in Carla’s direction, who’d retreated noticeably and looked shaken.

Stan reached a hand out and took her’s supportively.

“’S okay, he’ll probably stay holed up for the rest of the night.” He assured her.

Carla swallowed tightly and nodded. Following them inside. “Thank you, Mrs Pines.”

  
  


Everything about Ma seemed small and somber in a way Stan had never seen before as she rooted out two bottles of Pitt from the fridge for the barely-adults and set to work patching up his feet. She seemed to have ran out of the initial distraught, panicked, energy he’d glimpsed as he fled the living room. She was dejected and muted, even the colour of her gaudy dress seemed subdued in the kitchen gloom, but she was coherent enough. She had a clear objective to focus on. Doing anything in her power to lessen the pain _he_ felt. The maternal protectiveness was there clear as day, still strong enough to - at least for the moment - put the grief on the backburner and focus. The vehement need to _fix_. Comfort. The undiluted love for one of her now remaining children.

Stan wanted to help her back. Protect her. She had tried her best to protect him and Ford all their childhood. From unkind family members, and dismissive teachers, and Pa’s foul moods. He was an adult now. It was supposed to be his turn to return the favour.

“Ma… Do you need to… Do you want to talk about it?” He cringed internally at how meek and insincere it sounded. 

_‘Do you want to_ talk _about it?’ She’s lost her son, the good one, she didn’t have a stressful day at work._

She shook her head, not looking up from the gauze she was expertly wrapping around the myriad of cuts on his sole. Hand’s shifting fluidly between movements, practically on muscle memory alone. Tweezers removed any remaining shards, warm water cleaned off the street filth, hydrogen peroxide stung the exposed tissue, and finally clean bandages shielded the area from further damage.

After three accident prone boys, she was practically a certified paramedic at this point.

_Three._

_There were supposed to be three of them._

Stan hissed as the antiseptic stung a cut on his lower leg he hadn’t even noticed getting, taking a sip of his soda to cover it. After a deep breath, he spoke before he could lose his resolve.

“I… I made up my mind about something. Down at the beach.”

Carla smiled at him over Ma’s shoulder, raising a thumb up. Apparently sufficiently satisfied there were no more injuries left to tend to, Ma looked up again. Raising an eyebrow quizzically at Stan.

She looked older than she was supposed to.

“Yeah? An’ what’s that, hun?”

“I wanna go to Uni this fall.”

That made her pause. Sure, Stan had made it explicitly clear higher education wasn’t in his lifeplan many times, but Ma was the one adult who always believed in him. The proposition couldn’t be that startling, could it?

 _He wasn’t_ that _stupid, right?_

“University?” She asked as if wanting to make sure she’d really heard him right. She busied herself with putting the medkit back together and returning it to under the sink. “Didn’t F… Didn't F-Ford say applications closed a while back?”

Stan shrunk in on himself slightly.

“A-Actually, Mrs Pines, there’s plenty of schools that still have late applications open.” Both Pines looked at Carla, who fidgeted slightly under the sudden attention but nonetheless continued. “I was thinking of heading to Uni too. Me and Stan can apply together.”

That took Stan aback, because Carla McCorkle was hardly any more of a university type than he was. He knew for a fact that she’d managed to snag a job as a waiter at the local diner already. She’d told him several times how much she looked forward to being out of school and out from under her parent’s roof.

Nonetheless, the glare she gave him was one he knew by heart.

‘Don’t argue with me right now.’

He had the best girlfriend ever.

“Well… I don’t know if…” Ma paused looking back at Stan with uncertainty in her eyes.

“I want to continue Ford’s research.”

That, promptly cut off her protests. Her gaze fell to the cracked linoleum. Silence overtaking the room for a moment before she slowly nodded. Producing a handkerchief from somewhere in a fold on her skirt and wiping her face. Before Stan could decide on a course of action, she scooted her chair close and held him again. The smell of smoke, cheap perfume and hairspray making his eyes sting. 

At least that was how he’d explain it away.

“You’re such a good boy.” She croaked weakly, before correcting. “Man.”

He couldn’t help the small huff of a laugh that puffed out his nose. The way both he and Ford had insisted that since they were now 18, they were ‘technically adults’ and should be treated as such. But it was a laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a snivel.

“Okay.” She nodded fervently against his chest before swallowing a shaky breath. “Okay. I believe in you. Dontcha worry about payin for it, I’ll have a talk with your Pa. He’s pigheaded, but ya know he can’t say no ta me.”

“Ya don’t have to do that.” His voice came out equally choked up.

“Hush. I want to. Just… Can I ask one thing?”

Fuck, he would have agreed to anything to restore even a bit of her normal spirits. “Yeah, Ma. Anythin’.”

“Don’t leave Jersey. Please? Shermie is all the way in California, and now Ford-... Please, just for now, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah, okay, we can do that.” He nodded tightly. “That's a whole state to work with, there’s gotta be _some_ school that’ll take us, right?” His eyes darted to Carla, who gave him a quick smile in reply.

“Thank you.” Ma looked at him with unaccustomed sincerity. Cupping his face and brushing the hair out of his eyes. 

“I can’t stay In Glass Shard though. There’s too much…” Too much that would remind him of Ford. Too many painful reminders. “I just _can’t_.”

“I understand.” She nodded sadly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I understand. I’ll be okay. I… I’m so, so proud of ya, baby.”

_Proud._

He was going to make her proud.

He was going to make _Ford_ proud.

He was _going_ to get into University. Whatever school would accept him, and he was _going_ to see the research Ford was so excited over continued. No matter what it took. He might be the dumb twin, but he going to make it. There was no other option.

_For Ford._

Ford.

Far away from Glass Shard Beach, Ford's plane landed somewhere he was frighteningly sure wasn't the California airport.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't have hurt without comfort, now can we? I mean, I guess we can, but I wanted to write some wholesome Ma Pines.
> 
> Also! This is the first journal page I've made that involves code. Do you guys wanna figure it out yourselves, or should I put translations somewhere? Upload a separate fic with only the codes and journal pages maybe? Let me know!
> 
> (If you want to try your hand at deciphering it yourself, I suggest using this website to help out: http://themysteryofgravityfalls.com/. This was also where I got the cipher font, so kudos to those guys!)


	4. Chapter 4

Backupsmore University was… Not ideal.

There were bugs in the dorms and rodents in the cafeteria, the bathrooms didn’t look like they hadn’t been cleaned since Kennedy was in office, and most of the student body seemed more concerned with getting drunk, high, laid, or all three than studying for finals. To be fair, Stan wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Any university that’d take a late applicant with his academic history had to be either damn desperate or some kind of pyramid scheme. He was pretty sure it was the former.

At the very least, there were two significant positives. Firstly, at a school like that, nobody paid any attention to a bit of slacking on his part. Even if he tried to cut back. So long as you weren’t threatening to shoot the place up or something, you mostly went under the radar. And secondly, it was pretty much as far away from Glass Shard Beach as you could get without crossing the state border. It was far enough inland that it didn’t even really feel like the same state Stan had grown up in. The ever present humidity and salt permeating the air was gone, and seagulls was something he was beginning to associate far more with the greasy campus hotdog kiosk than piers and childhoods and  _ brothers _ .

All in all, he supposed it wasn’t that bad. It was dirt cheap too, as far as tuition went. Not that they could charge much with their kind of amenities. It was a good compromise between what two kids fresh out of highschool with no university savings could make up on the spot, and what Pa was willing to help contribute.

Ma had convinced him to help pay in the end. Stan wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but he wouldn’t question the results. Pa had been willing to help Ford out, because Ford was an investment that would -  _ should have _ \- one day paid off. Stan… Stan going too was pure sentimentality. 

Still, both his parents had been there to see him off as he got on the bus with Carla for the long road ahead. What little he owned that didn’t feel tainted by memories haphazardly stuffed into a borrowed suitcase. He wasn’t sure if they could have cut the trip down by getting on flight instead, but he hadn’t even looked into that alternative. He wasn’t too concerned about his own safety, but he vividly remembered the state of near panic Ma had been in for the entirety of Shermie’s five and a half hours flight back home for the funeral. He wouldn’t put her through that again. Not if he could help it.

The funeral… 

Stan hadn’t been sure what to expect. The last time a close relative had died was grandpa, and back then he and Ford had been just five or so. Too small to really even know what was going on, much less be expected to sit  shiva. So he hadn’t known what to expect. But even so, he’d been under the impression that funerals and the surrounding traditions were supposed to be solemn affairs. Sad, but calm. Cathartic.

It really hadn’t been.

Ma had been upset the entire way through. There were so many customs it wasn’t feasible to follow just practically speaking. It felt like the people in charge were against them at every turn. Stan had long since stopped putting much credence in the whole religion thing, he was pretty sure Ford couldn’t care less if it took a few days to put what was left of him in the ground, or if he wasn’t wearing the right things, what with the whole being dead thing. But Ma cared. She really did, and he could see it just eating at her. Nobody was with the body in transport, it took days to even identify him, and when they finally got a coffin they weren't allowed to open it.

Ma had fought tooth and nail for the chance to see Ford. But the officials had been adamant. He was too badly damaged by the crash. They wouldn’t expose her to the stress of seeing him in such a state. It was better for her to just keep the memory of how he looked when he was alive.

At one point during the shiva, when Ma and Pa were out of the room, Stan overheard Shermie’s fiance sharing in that outrage. Something about how since Ford didn’t have a spouse or kids (he’d shook his head. Ford with kids, imagine that) their parents were legal next of kin. They legally  _ couldn’t  _ be kept from the body. Not even by the government.

Shermie had asked her to not bring it up. They all knew Ma would just take up the fight all over again if she knew she was in the right. She was a Pines, stubbornness was practically a prerequisite. But his older brother wasn’t sure she could handle seeing one of her kids like that. As far as Stan was concerned, he was selling her short. But on Shermie’s insistence that  _ Ford  _ probably wouldn't want to be seen that way either, he’d agree to not mention anything.

Shermie had been with them too when he’d gotten on the bus, and Stan was glad for that. Glad that someone was staying a few extra weeks to keep an eye on their parents. It made leaving them in the rearview mirror a little less gut churning. 

He’d still felt like the scum of the earth when he'd had to practically pry Ma’s fingers off his hand so he could get onboard before the driver gave up and left.

She seemed to be recovering slowly. Her voice sounded a little less dead when he'd talked to her over the phone since arriving at the campus and settling in at least. Or maybe she was just better at faking it when she was on the wire. She sold lies over the phone for a living after all. He’d called her every weekend in the month that had passed since the term started. He planned to continue doing so.

The last interaction he’d had with Pa was still the reluctant handshake they’d shared before he left.

The door to his cramped dorm room swinging open brought Stan back to the present.

“Hey, babe.” Carla called out with the usual after-class energy. “How are you holding up?”

He looked up from the second-hand textbook he’d been staring into unseeingly for the last hour. He wasn’t sure which he disliked most, ‘advanced physics’ or ‘zoology’, but they sounded like classes Ford would have loved to take, so he’d signed himself up for both at the start of the semester. Now if only they’d had a course in  _ crypto _ zoology, he’d be golden. But alas. Everyone but Carla seemed to regard the idea of seriously researching ‘anomalies’ as a big joke. Much like they did Stan himself. Not that he cared much if his classmates didn’t like him, he wasn’t there for himself.

Besides, Carla liked him, and that was all that mattered.

“Bored outta my mind, but y’know. Holding up.” He put a random receipt between the pages and threw the book onto his bed. Single bed. It was bullshit the dorms weren’t coed, they were in the 1970’s, not the 1870’s. “How’d your seminar go?”

“You know my class. So long as you actually show up, you’re pretty much set.” With a small hop, she’d sat herself down on his desk. Looking him over critically. “Are you still on for tonight?”

“If I ever become enough of a nerd to stand you up in favour of reading, shoot me.” He shook his head, hair getting into his eyes. He needed a cut. If it got much longer he’d have a mullet. “Just gotta shower and freshen up.”

“Get to it then, the freshman meetup is in half an hour and I’m not sprinting to the student centre this time. I wore heels.” She playfully pushed him out of the chair, and he relented with a huff.

“That’s your mistake, babe.” He stopped in the doorway briefly, turning back to her and raising an eyebrow. “You still good to walk to the diner afterwards though, right?”

“I wouldn’t wear them if I couldn’t walk in them. Get going, you worrywart.”

“Geez, you try to be a gentleman and you get insulted for yer troubles…” Nonetheless, he smiled.

He honestly wasn’t sure he would have made it this far without her.

  
  


“Mr Pines?”

Ford glanced fleetingly at the stern looking men as they entered the plane. The entire situation felt like some strange narrative from one of the comic books Stanley would read. Every single alarm was blaring in his head.

“ _ Mr Pines _ .” 

The voice was more insistent this time. Everyone else remained in their seats. Didn’t react to the men, as if this was nothing unusual. A joke they were in on. They didn’t even look at him as he stood on shaking legs, hands hidden behind his back. 

A joke. Everyone on the plane was affiliated with West Coast Tech. It had to be some kind of extremely elaborate prank on the freshman. He’d thought they’d be above those sorts of things at a school like that. Shouldn’t they be?

He felt alone in the crowd. Ostracized in a way he’d never been before. He wanted Stanley.

“Y-Yes, sir?”

“Please follow us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I decided to finally make that tumblr blog I'd been planning on getting for a while and upload the translated cipher texts there, so if you want a translation instead of decoding your pages yourself, check out this link for this chapter and the last's ciphers:   
> https://gobblewanker.tumblr.com/post/645601241179865088/the-first-four-pages-of-stans-version-of-journal  
> Might upload some more fanart there too later.  
> As always, thank you so, so much for reading! ^^


End file.
